Christmas in Translation

This post was originally published on Anastasia Vitsky's blog.

I’ve always had a complicated relationship with Poland. It was the country my parents fled, the place whose oppressive regime and limited options drove them to immigrate to the United States before I was born. Poland was the wreck my family had swerved to avoid, the baseline used to discredit my teenage dramas (“You could have been born in Poland! Then you would have NO designer jeans!”). It was like an estranged relative, both conspicuously absent and undeniably present in my family.

Circa 1984, not in Poland

Farewell, Preschool Mom.

I won’t get the empty house.

Stay-at-home mothers talk about the silence, the stillness, the freedom, the joy, and the little bit of longing they feel when the school bus drives off and they find themselves alone at home for the first time.

I’m a working mother. Evie and Felix are daycare kids. I’ve been packing lunches and writing names on jackets since they were in diapers. Our house is empty on most weekdays, and only the cats are home to enjoy the stillness. The transition from preschool to kindergarten shouldn’t be a big deal.

And yet, it is.

When that little boy with the lion keychain on his backpack walks to the bus stop with his big sister, a phase of my life is officially over. Preschool Mom is done.

Nectarine Mousse Cake (Gateau de Mousse a la Nectarine)

26 years ago, my parents and their friends hosted a Bastille Day dinner party in our neighbors' backyard. The inspiration and recipes came from the July 1989 issue of Gourmet Magazine.

No detail was overlooked, from the handwritten menus to the French wine. 

We talked about sending this photo to Gourmet. 

The High School Reunion Apology Form

This weekend, I’m attending my 20-year high school reunion. I want to have a good time, I want to enjoy the company of my friends and classmates and their politely obliging spouses. I want to drink wine and hear mid-90s grunge rock and reminisce about our big-haired years.

But first, I want to apologize.

I have a complicated relationship with my teenage self. She was a skinny, often infuriating person who simultaneous knew everything and nothing about life. 

Dear Me: 16 things I'd like to say to my 16-year-old self

Dear Me,

I'm your 36-year-old self. Our 20-year high school reunion is coming up, I've been reconnecting with classmates on this thing called Facebook, and I've been thinking about you and wishing I could offer some advice.

I'm presenting my thoughts in a futuristic format called the listicle. It's what writers in 2015 do when we're too lazy to write transition sentences and form a cohesive essay.

1. Spend less energy worrying about fitting in, and be a better friend to the kids who don't.

Frisbees and floor stains: The weight of 15 years

I'm typing this in a shiny, well-lit Macintosh computer lab in upper Sayles-Hill. 

It's very, very clean.

This room used to be a smoking lounge, filled with dark, ratty couches and overflowing plastic ashtrays and a stench that followed you home.

Dairy Queen Days

On our way out of Fargo today, Sam and I took the kids to a very special restaurant:

I worked here for four summers, one school year, and a couple of winter breaks during high school and college. I will always think of it as my Dairy Queen.

Can you play me a memory?

Today, Evie played in her first piano recital. She and a handful of other young musicians visited a local senior center and played for the residents. Evie was the youngest performer there, and I was so proud of her.

Watching her perform brought back memories. It reminded me why I was so insistent that she start piano lessons, and why I'm so grateful that she is enjoying herself.

The Nevada chapter

"If you want to learn journalism, work for a small town newspaper."

"The sky is bluer out west."

These two ideas took hold of me 15 years ago, in my senior year of college. The first was shared by a professor, the second by my friend during a spring break driving tour of large, rectangular states. It was on that trip I declared, with the certainty that only a person in their early 20s can muster, "Whatever happens to me after graduation, I'll be OK... as long as I can see mountains."

Two Questions for Fargo

When I visit a place from my past, I always carry two questions: What has changed? What remains the same?

This week, I'm in Fargo. So I asked.

My high school now has a water slide, but the strange dome on top of the building remains.

A letter from my 20th century self

This was a 10-year "time capsule" letter that I was supposed to open a year ago. Due to packing, moving, and general chaos, it finally turned up today.

Date: December 31, 1999

The best things in my life are: My sweetie, Sam. My 6-month-old kitten, Oedipa. My job, which allows me to share my writing - even if it is just with Winnemucca! My parents, who love me even if they often drive me crazy. My near-certainty that so many adventures lie ahead and I'm ready for them all!

My personal goals for the future are: To always be a writer, in some capacity. To be a mommy someday. To make my mother very, very proud. To always be kind to people and animals. To fill my own corner of the world with peace, love, and optimism. To be referred to as "classy." To never stop dreaming, and to be happy.

My wishes for the future of the world are: That people start taking teenagers, especially their sadness and fears, more seriously. That the rainforests somehow endure. That women win their deserved roles in government and business. That marijuana and gay marriage become legal. That guns begin to disappear, especially from the lives of children. That heavy women are considered beautiful.

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New Year's Eve, 1999, is not the biggest celebration of my life. I'm at my little rented duplex in Winnemucca, waiting for Sam to finish his shift at Dominos. The living room is a mess. I made chocolatey Chex mix and inadvertently trashed the kitchen. I just watched Barbara Walters do a card trick on TV and screw up. I can't believe they're still showing commercials about Y2K. I'm so sick of it!

When Sam comes home, we'll go celebrate with Sheldon from work. I barely know him, and he's not having much of a party, but it's something to do.

I'm not disappointed. I'm fixated on the future and none of this millennium stuff feels very real. So much of this century has been waiting for my life to start. School, school, and then Nevada. I'm not done yet, so why pause now?

Maybe I'll take off in 2000. Sam might start school, I might land a dream job, and maybe he'll even ask me to marry him. Imagine!

So I hope you're not too disappointed in me, because I can't offer any huge insights and I didn't spend the New Year in Times Square or Vegas. But I'm here, the millennium is dawning, and I'm a young, optimistic girl with glitter on my cheeks. And I know that, even though I have not left my mark on humankind yet, I am experiencing history today - my own.

Best wishes to the 21st century.

Love,

Monica

I loved...

When I was a child, I loved my animals.

Baby dolls were boring. Cabbage Patch Kids freaked me out. I only played Barbies under extreme duress from my friends.

I shared my bedroom with approximately two dozen stuffed animals. If I try hard, I can form hazy pictures of a few of them. A droopy-faced puppy with exaggerated sad eyes. A pink, heart-adorned bear who was a Valentine's Day gift. A lime-scented parrot from the Strawberry Shortcake collection. A panda of sorts.

There were all the others, and then there was Russ.

Requiem for a piercing

"How long have you had it?" The heavily tattooed man had the stature of a Lord of the Rings extra. He was small, his posture awkward. He was Queequeg of the Shire.

I performed some quick calculations and reminded myself of my age. "Well, I'm 28 now, so that would make it.... Ten years."

---------

In high school, I was a good kid. Sure, I instigated some drama, but for the most part, I was a good teenaged citizen. I was a straight-A student. I belonged to the environmental club, played the piano, and volunteered at the V.A. on weekends. I said no to sex, drugs, and alcohol. My non-controversial appearance was warmly sanctioned by my mother: Long blond hair, carefully applied makeup in neutral shades, perfectly average body weight, wardrobe by The Gap. There wasn't a crowd in Fargo that I couldn't blend right into.

Then I started college.

Joyeux Anniversaire, Papa

There is one story that has echoed around me throughout my life. It starts in Communist Poland, and it ends in Fargo, North Dakota.

The version I have heard the most is a story of courage, patriotism, and a fervent pursuit of the American dream. This is the story that I retold in every grade school essay competition and scholarship application. It's the story I told in my college graduation speech. It's the story I told in his obituary.

There's another version that I prefer to tell my friends over cocktails. I didn't learn it until I was in my 20s, but it has the twists and turns of a suspense novel. The "spy mission" he accepted in order to leave the country. The secretive, hurried departure, presumably never to return. My mother's repeated breakdowns in embassies, as she struggled with the idea of leaving her homeland and family behind forever. Their constant flight from the Polish secret police, who tapped their phone lines and intercepted their mail.

Reflections on Fargo

Unless tomorrow includes disasters of TV-movie proportions, I'm ready to declare successful completion of my best visit to Fargo since I moved to Nevada seven years ago.

I'll never forget the look on my mother's face when she entered the Chinese restaurant and saw me and Sam standing there. She had no idea we were coming. Not a clue. Once the initial shock and confusion dissipated, she was happier than I imagined, even in my best daydreams.

Somewhere to the east, a storm is drenching the North Dakota prairie. It is too far away for me to hear the thunder, but the view across the flat, treeless prairie seems infinite. Spindly lightning bolts and bright washes of blue flash aganst the sky. I've been watching them like fireworks, each display more impressive than the last.

Happy Birthday, Mom

Tomorrow is my mother's birthday. She will be 65.

My mother has led an action-packed life. She grew up in Poland. She was a doctor. So was my dad. He posed as a spy so they could escape the Communists and build a better life for their kids.
It sounds like a cheesy movie script, but this is the story of my family.

My mother grew up in Poland.

I grew up in North Dakota.

My life has been very drama-free, compared to my parents' lives. That's exactly what they wanted.

Something unexpected and moving from the archives

Monica's Tip of the Day: If, while walking on your treadmill, you spot out of the corner of your eye an unfamiliar 3.5" floppy disk with your maiden name on it (written in somebody else's handwriting, no less) check it out. You might find a gem like this one.

Background: I recognize this as an assignment I wrote for a Magazine Journalism class in college. In case you don't know, Peter Czernek was my father, and he passed away in December 2001 at the age of 59. I do believe that he's still watching over me, and that he may have had something to do with me discovering this article when I was in need of some inspiration today.

I am posting it here as a tribute to him. Perhaps his story will inspire someone else today.

Of first loves and talk show hosts and Canadian nachos

Steve from Wahpeton is married.

The wedding happened a few weeks ago, but the announcement ran in the Fargo Forum yesterday. My eagle-eyed friend Jennie e-mailed me the article, which included the usual laundry list of bridal attendants (where did the term laundry list come from? Who makes lists for washing their clothes? Why not just wash whatever is in the hamper?).

Sadly, the online version did not include a photograph. Jennie assured me he looked pretty much the same, plus a few pounds.

So you might be wondering, "Who is Steve?" "What is Wahpeton?" "Why is Monica writing about this?"